


A Certain Predictable Response

by verushka70



Series: Another Life [4]
Category: due South
Genre: Drama, M/M, Series: Another Life, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-15
Updated: 2000-01-15
Packaged: 2018-11-10 09:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11124135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verushka70/pseuds/verushka70
Summary: Fraser and Ray argue over the way Fraser's latest loss of control was provoked.





	A Certain Predictable Response

**Author's Note:**

> This story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). It has not been changed (nor will it be) on import to the AO3, except to more appropriately or descriptively tag, and to fix broken web links. Ever so grateful to [Open Doors](http://opendoors.transformativeworks.org/) and to [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza), for making the archive import to AO3 happen. TYK!

A Certain Predictable Response

Pairing/warning/rating: Fraser/Kowalski, angsty discussion,  
minor violence, R

This follows immediately after White Hot. Fraser and Ray argue over the way Fraser's latest loss of control was provoked. 

Thanks to Maxine for thoughtful beta-ing again. 

#### A Certain Predictable Response

 

Something he said earlier suddenly occurs to me as I'm eating the Mongolian beef in Ray's bed. My heart skips a beat. 

"What did you say earlier, about predictable responses?" I ask. 

"I didn't say nothin'," he says around a mouthful of sweet and sour pork. "You said it. When I was talkin' about the Velcro sound of your collar." 

"I said that you had a certain predictable response to some things. And you said..." 

He swallows his mouthful and speaks. "And I said, 'So do you'." 

"I..." 

It suddenly occurs to me why he looked the way he did at that moment, one hand cuffed to the head of the bed. Thoughtful, and almost as if he thought he had the upper hand. 

It was because he did. 

"Ray," I begin, carefully, "Was your... behaviour at the precinct some way of... priming the pump, so to speak?" 

"What behaviour?" he asks, forking another mouthful of food into his mouth. 

"Your... your... familiarity and... physicality with Detective Patterson. Your... repeatedly touching him. On the shoulder, for example." 

He stops chewing for a moment and gives me a long measuring look before speaking. The air in the room subtly changes. 

"Priming the pump?" He chews and swallows before continuing. "Okay, yeah, yeah. It was just a hunch I had, about the last time -- what triggered it in you. I thought... thought it might push you into, uh, into gettin' all wild on me again. Cuz that seemed to do it last time." He pauses. "And it worked, too." He winks, trying to lighten the mood. But I'm not fooled. I sense his anxiety, his edginess. 

"It worked," I reply numbly. 

"Ya okay?" he says, peering at me curiously. "You're not mad, are ya?" 

"Mad?" I am, once again, furious. More at myself than at him. 

"You're mad, aren't ya. Well, look, Frase. I was just testin' a theory. I needed somethin' ta push you over that edge again... I just thought, well, hell, I think that's what did it last time. I thought I'd see if it would work again. And... it did." He shrugs, the casual move too mannered and studied for me to believe he truly feels as casual about it as he is trying to appear. He stabs his fork back down into the carton of food again. 

I put the carton of Mongolian Beef on the night stand and my feet on the floor, but all I can do is lean on my knees. 

"Where ya goin'?" 

I can't answer. I am furious with him. Furious with myself. And disheartened. 

"Frase?" I hear the edge of fear in his voice. "You mad?" 

I can't speak. I do not know what will come out of my mouth if I do. I try to regain control over my emotions. Why? Why bother? Apparently, losing control of them is exactly what Ray would like; he certainly went out of his way to provoke that. But it's so... so... foreign to me, I can not help but try to rein myself in. Yet again. 

"I..." I begin and then stop. Then I slowly continue. "I think... I think I'd better go." 

"Go?" The alarm is evident in his voice now and the bed shakes as he moves to put his carton of food on the nightstand on his side. "Why do you have to go, Frase? Don't go," he says, his voice softening. "I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry. Really sorry. I just... just couldn't... I had to find some way... some way to get you to do it again..." he trails off. 

"You can't just ask?" 

"I thought I did, the other night," he says, more sharply. 

The hardwood floor under my feet suddenly absorbs my attention. The whorls in the wood. Where did this wood come from? It can't be Illinois... unless perhaps southern Illinois, where I believe there once were vast forests, which are now no longer vast, and must be federally protected \-- though this federal protection includes the US Forestry Service's right to lease the land to logging companies. 

It must be Wisconsin. In my few years in Chicago, I've come to realize that much of the wood and paper products used  in this city are derived from wood from Wisconsin. The big centre of paper production being in Wausau. Though, with the recent changes in North American trade agreements, for all I know, much of the wood in current use may have come from Canada. 

But this, this wood, under my feet, is too old to have come from Canada. It's been here for decades. It must be from Wisconsin. I sigh and close my eyes and think of the Northwest Territories. The unending forest, the quiet, the stillness. My sudden desperate wish to be there, alone, no humans, no Ray, no one but myself and Dief. A harsh but uncomplicated life. I could have that. It isn't as if I need a job to provide for myself. I am, after all, an anachronism in this city. In this society. In my own society. 

I don't know how long Ray has been speaking but I'm suddenly aware of his voice again. 

"--an' I know it was wrong an' I shouldn'ta done it... but, Frase, ya gotta understand... how, how hard it is to... to say to your... I mean, Frase, do you think it's easy telling your straight laced, uptight, perfect, do-right Mountie lover, 'By the way... I need you to ravage me and take me roughly an' hold me down an' do things that hurt on the way to the greatest pleasure I have ever known'? I mean, come on. I felt... so weird about it. I knew you... you wouldn't go for it. Not straight out, not ...if I asked. Specifically. Directly." He sighs and then his voice drops barely above a whisper. "Please turn around an' look at me. Even if I can't look at you... just so's I know ya don't hate me for this." 

But I don't turn around. I just grip my knees and try to think of something to say. The white hot feeling is back, an anger so cold it burns, like dry ice. And without a way of channelling it, I'm afraid to let anything slip out, for fear of overreacting. 

"Fraser... Frase... please! God, I'm sorry! I won't do it again!" he says, and I feel the mattress move as he scoots over to my side. 

That provokes me to stand. 

"Don't touch me," I warn him, turning to look at him, now sitting where I was just sitting. 

"Fraser--" 

"Ray, I really think I ought to go," I say carefully. "It would not be a good idea for me to stay here with you right now. I am not sure how to react to this and I'm... I'm..." 

"You're really pissed," he says, looking miserably up at me. The thin skin at his temples shows that vein again, and the slight darkening of the flesh under his eyes, darkened by the many blood vessels. Absurd things occur to me: what it would look like, from inside those veins, surrounded by Ray's hot, blue (for it would not be exposed to oxygen) blood. What it would sound like, hearing the beat of his heart from inside his body. 

"Yes," I admit, liking dropping a small stone. 

"Okay, okay, you've got every right to be," he quickly responds. He reaches a hand out, and then it retreats as he remembers my recent command for him not to touch me. 

"Yes, I think I do," I agree sharply. Another stone. 

"I know. I know. Yer right. Yer totally right. But, but..." He trails off, looking very chastened and disheartened. But there is a moment of calculation that shows on his face. It is as if I can see the wheels turning. 

He draws a breath to speak, but I bark an inappropriate laugh. His expression twists into something I can't read, and he expels the breath. And then he inhales again, and the steely resolve that passes across his features only provokes me more. 

"I don't see what's so freakin' funny, Frase," he says, in a controlled but annoyed tone. "Okay, I'm sorry. I said I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. I swear. But why the hell didja laugh just now? And what the hell else was I supposed to do?" 

"Why did I laugh?" I say, pacing away from him. "Because you're so transparent. Because I'm a fool. I should have known in the precinct that's what you were trying to do. But I was so... so... upset by what I saw." The last sentence comes out like gravel over my throat. 

"You're not a fool. I'm sorry I upset you. I just... just couldn't think of any other way... you, you got wild the last time you got jealous of Patterson, so I thought, Okay, I'll, I'll give it a shot again... maybe he'll get wild and possessive again..." 

"And I got wild. And you're right. I do have certain predictable responses. Different from yours, but just as reflexive." I pause. 

The full weight of my anger still weighs on me and is not being dispelled by this conversation. My limbs feel tight and I want to leave. To throw my clothes on, get my coat, and leave with Diefenbaker and run half the way back to the Consulate until I am winded and wheezing and can't speak. 

"It's okay... I mean, yer supposed to... if, if ya really love someone, right? You didn't do anything wrong, Frase. It's a normal reaction, jealousy." 

"And it didn't occur to you how I might feel while watching your little plan unfold, not knowing it was contrived, not knowing it wasn't genuine?" My voice rises. 

The look on his face clearly indicates that this thought never occurred to him. 

"God, I... I... Fraser, you can't believe that I -- You don't honestly think I'd go for Patterson, do you?" 

I have no idea what my expression looks like, but the guilt in Ray's expression deepens at the same time as fear and compassion dawn. 

"Oh, my God, you do. Fraser! God, Fraser, no! You can't think that. It's not true. It would never be true. He means nothing, okay? Nothing. Nice kid, whatever, he's all right I guess, but you're it. You're the one. The one I love. The one I need. I don't want no one but you fer the rest o' my life. I would never -- I was just playin' around! Honest to God. Please believe me!" And now he does reach out for me, for my hands, with both of his. 

And, cruelly, I step back from his grasp. It is a mean satisfaction when I see the pain of that rejection on his face, and that emotion releases handfuls of stones. 

"Oh, God," he says miserably, putting his head in his hands. "Fraser, I am... I dunno how I could be more sorry but I am." He sits up again, looking pale. "I'm so sorry. God, I'm stupid. I suck. I didn't think... for a minute that you'd really believe I could look at anyone but you. Want anyone but you. How can you? You gotta realize, Frase, I... I can't live without you." He swallows, looking away. "I'm an idiot. God, I'm so fucking _stupid_. I'm sorry. Fraser... B-benton. I am totally, completely sorry. Please believe me. I am." There is no calculation on his face now, nothing but abject pain and guilt. 

It is terrible, but for some reason this is almost as satisfying as hearing him beg for release when my mouth is on him or when I'm inside him. 

And that can't be good. 

"Ray..." I feel somewhat calmer. "I ...don't know what to say. I... don't know what to think." 

"Frase, ya gotta believe me. I never meant to hurt you. Never. That's the last thing I wanna do! What can I do to make it up to you? Anything. Whatever you want. Whatever it will take to convince you. Ya gotta believe me, Frase. You're the one. The one for me. That's the whole... the whole problem. I shouldn't've but I hadda ...provoke you I guess. To..." 

His voice trembles, but he presses on. "To take me. Hard an' rough an' like you mean it. Like I'm... I'm... your captive." He hitches his breath. "I'm such a fucking idiot. Please don't go. Please don't." 

He puts his head in his hands again. Obviously my moving away when he reached out taught him it was useless to try to reach out for me again. 

For some reason, that is the only thing that penetrates my white hot anger. Now I'm no better than he is, my actions no better. If he had touched me, if I had let him put his hands on me, would it really have unleashed my anger? Or softened it? Did I do it so I could _stay_ angry and cold? 

I take a step toward him. His shoulders move in acknowledgement, and he lifts his head, his eyes like holes. But he makes no move. 

Abject helplessness? Is this what I wanted to provoke with my cold anger? 

We're now at useless sixes and sevens with each other. Cross purposes. 

"Frase... What do you wanna do?" he whispers. "Ya wanna go? You can go. I got no right to make you stay and you got no reason, no, no... obligation to stay. I wish you would, but... but I could see why you'd wanna leave." He sighs and closes his eyes. 

Now his abject demeanour is only further firing my anger, into a slow, cold burn. I take another step toward him. 

He opens his eyes. "If there's any way I can make it up, tell me. I will. There prob'ly isn't, knowing you, but if there is, let me know." Spoken wearily. 

I move swiftly, too fast to think and within milliseconds his head snaps back from the force of my slap. 

The sharp inhalation of his breath is the only sound after the smack. His hand goes to the angry red outline of my hand on his cheek. I can see him stifling responses. His eyes have gotten very, very big. They look simultaneously astonished, strangely grateful, and devastated. After a moment and a couple of swallows, he speaks. 

"Okay, okay..." he says, shaken. "All right, I deserved that... I guess that's one way of makin' it up to you." 

Now it is my turn to feel abject and wretched. I've hit Ray. Not with my closed fist, but -- but-- _how_ could I do that? I can restrain myself from doing violence to criminals who deserve far more than Ray ever could for anything he'd do. He may be addled at times, but he's essentially a good and decent man. And I've hit him. At a level of provocation where I'd never hit a suspect or known criminal. I can rein myself in for them, but not for him? What is wrong with me? 

"Ray..." I begin, and my voice is so ragged it squeaks. "I ...I don't know... what came over me... I'm so sorry..." 

He holds up a hand -- the hand not on his cheek, which is so red it must feel hot under his fingers -- to stop me. 

"Fraser. Don't. Okay? Just... don't. I fucked up. I'm sorry. I purposely provoked you, right? Some of the consequences, I wanted and liked... this other one I didn't like, but I deserved. So don't freak about this. Ya slapped me. I deserved it. It's over." He sighs and sinks down on the bed. 

"Ray, I am terribly--" 

"Fraser, _don't_. Don't make me feel worse than I do, okay? Please. You're right, I'm wrong, it was stupid, and I just didn't... think out what would _really_ happen, before I went ahead and did it. So I made my bed, an' I'll lie in it, right? Right." He sighs, closing his eyes and then opening them again to look at the ceiling. "Come to think of it, I _am_ lying in the bed I made." The small attempt at humour doesn't work for either of us. But I appreciate his effort. 

Once again, as if my body is under the control of some unknown, unpredictable clone of my brain, I act without thinking. 

I go to my knees beside the bed and grasp Ray's knee. 

He lifts his head. "Fraser, don't! Get up. C'mon." He throws his head back down. 

But I can't. And, worse yet, my mouth has gone numb, and I can not speak. All I can do is grasp his other knee with my other hand and squeeze both. 

"Fraser--" he lifts his head and looks at me. Something like surprise passes across his features, and he sits up all the way. "Fraser, c'mon... it's all right. Let's just, just pretend this didn't..." 

I can't speak, but I can shake my head. And I am. 

"Okay, yer right, yer right. We can't pretend it didn't happen... it did." He looks down into my face. "It's all right, Frase. Don't beat yourself up about it. Okay? If you won't, I won't. Let's just... try to start over. Forget all this." He slides a hand through his hair, leaving it spiky. A shadow of guilt passes across his face, but it is not for what he did. 

It is for what he is now thinking. And suddenly I know he wants to undo only the last forty five minutes since we received the food... not the rest of the evening. That he'd leave the rest of the evening -- red marks on his wrist and all -- the way that it was, and never wants to forget that. But, for me, he will. Or he will at least try. 

And I can't speak and tell him that, really, I don't want him to. I can't tell him that I, too, don't want to start over and forget it. I can't tell him that he scratched the surface of something inside me and at certain moments it comes out and transports me in a way I have never known. I can't tell him that to have him completely in my hands, utterly under my power, whispering and moaning and begging for me, for my touch, for me to end his sweet suffering, touches a deeply satisfying and soothing chord in me. Which, in and of itself, frightens me... but can not be denied. 

And also can not be spoken. 

He looks back at me, puts a hand on my hand on his knee, and pats it. "C'mon, Frase," he says, but then he looks at me, and even though he doesn't exactly cock his head, the expression on his face changes as if he _had_. 

And then he speaks again, wonderingly. 

"You... you wanna just... just re-think this?" he says carefully, watching me attentively. "Wanna just try to erase the, the method, but keep goin' after the... the effect?" 

I feel the fever hot blush rise from my collarbone to my hairline, even as our eyes meet. Ray. My instinctual Ray. You know. Thank God. Thank God I don't have to speak. I know that I should. I know that, eventually, I must. That _we_ must. 

But, for right now, it is good that you know me so well. 

"You do, don'tcha?" he whispers. In anyone else, those words could be uttered sneeringly, contemptuously, triumphantly, arrogantly. Those words could be used to press the guilty association they already have in my mind, and further manipulate me. 

But he says them shyly, hesitant. Hesitant to trust that we're out of the woods, hesitant to hope for too much... but hopeful nonetheless. 

I can't bear his eyes on my burning face any more and lay my cheek on his knee. The flesh is cool against my hot cheek. I clutch his calf under his knee and close my eyes, suddenly drained. 

"Frase..." he whispers. And then I feel his light strokes, his palm smoothing my unruly hair. "Don't worry. Everything'll be all right." 

He continues to stroke my head. Now that he knows I will permit it, he strokes his fingers lightly through my hair. I turn my face half way and press my lips against the top of his bony knee. And he just keeps ...petting and soothing me. 

"It'll be all right. We'll figure this out. Everything works if you let it." 

It sounds so trite, even to my ears, I chuckle, though it is almost a half-sob along with the chuckle. 

"What?" he asks. 

"Nothing," I whisper into his knee. "It just sounded so... so unrealistic. What you just said." 

"Hey, that's what you get from song lyrics. Clich city. 'Everything works if you let it. If you let it in your heart.' " He chuckles now, too. "I guess it is pretty unrealistic. Sure sounds good, though, huh?" 

And still his hands, both of them now, petting and stroking me, his fingers combing through my hair. A sudden absurd thought occurs to me: how primate-like we are, as if he is grooming me, like a mountain gorilla or any other ape would. Though I know he's not really looking for nits, it's the same behaviour. I have read that it is soothing to them. That apes deprived of the opportunity to groom other apes become disturbed. Because they are social animals and need to express this caring for their fellow apes. 

Perhaps Ray needs to do this. Perhaps I need to let him. 

I know that I don't really understand human behaviour. I try, and I understand a good deal of the theories. My Chicago Public Library card has been a great help, but because I am rather an anachronism, my ability to apply these theories to real world situations is somewhat lacking. Or, I should say, the reading has been very fruitful in understanding the people around me who don't get too close -- criminals, victims, witnesses. 

But, when it comes to applying those theories to myself, and to those who are closest to me... I am an abysmal failure as a student of human nature. 

"It's okay, it's okay now," Ray is murmuring as he runs his hands over my hair. "We'll figure things out, Frase. C'mon. Let's get to bed, okay?" 

Finally I can heave myself up from the floor, and stand, weaving, over him. He still looks concerned but much less worried. 

"Ya okay?" 

"Yes... for the most part." 

"Okay." He scoots back on the bed, to his side of it. "I'm done eating anyway." 

"I am, too," I reply quietly and sit. 

We climb under the covers without speaking, and arrange ourselves carefully, so that we're not touching. 

"Can ya get that lamp, Frase?" 

"Of course." 

I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. 

"Frase," he whispers. 

"Yes?" 

Instead of replying, I feel his hand on my upper arm. 

And, once again, I'm swept up in something that grabs hold of my soul and squeezes it. And I crush Ray to me in my arms. 

"Ooof. Wasn't quite expecting that," he says. But he sounds pleased and relieved. 

I can't help it. I must. I press my lips to the cheek that I hit. It is warm, but not any warmer than his lips or his other cheek. 

"Ray," I whisper. 

"Yeah?" he whispers back. 

"Tell me something... the truth." 

"Sure." 

"When I... I slapped you..." I take a breath. "Did it... did it feel good to you? Did you... like it?" I hold my breath. 

"Truth?" he whispers again. 

"Yes," I reply. 

"No. It just hurt," he says. 

Oh, thank God. 

"But you know..." he begins to speak again. An unmistakable playful sound is in his voice. "Maybe if you had slapped me on the _other_ cheeks..." 

I squeeze the breath out of him with my hug, half-exasperated, half-relieved. As relieved as I can be, given the events of this evening. 

"Ow, ow, Fraser," he chuckles, breathless. "Okay, okay... I was just kidding, sorry." 

One last, lighter squeeze, and I loosen my embrace. But he pulls me closer to him, and I'm surprised to feel his lips in the hair at my temples. My one hand moves down the length of his arm, feeling the lean muscle, the bony elbow, his forearm. I can barely feel the rings in his wrist from the handcuffs. But I can feel them. 

But before I can become morose and apologetic, he speaks again. 

"Fraser. I love you. More than anything or anyone else in the whole fuckin' world. Don't ever think I'd be dumb enough to do something to drive you away on purpose. Ever." 

His lean, wiry arms wrap around me. One thigh is thrown over my legs. 

"I know," I reply just before his mouth covers mine, warm, wet, sweet. And I do know... in my head if not my heart. Which ultimately isn't Ray's fault and predates any of my experiences with him. 

Paradoxically, of course, it dawns on me that the few times my heart has been most convinced of Ray's complete and utter commitment, have been recently when he was in my hands. When he has allowed me to restrain him. When his pleasure was mine to increase, release, or take away. 

When I possessed him utterly.  
   
   
   
   
   
   
  

end  
   
   
   
   
  

**Author's Note:**

> Note: The lyrics "everything works if you let it / if you let it in  
> your heart" are from the Cheap Trick song "Everything Works If You Let  
> It"


End file.
